


Made Perfect

by viceindustrious



Category: Sherlock Holmes (Downey films)
Genre: BDSM, Chastity Device, M/M, Orgasm Control, Orgasm Denial, Piercings, Prostate Milking
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-01-08
Updated: 2017-01-08
Packaged: 2018-09-15 20:24:17
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,326
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/9255074
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/viceindustrious/pseuds/viceindustrious
Summary: Blackwood feels it is important to control Coward's pleasure.





	

**Author's Note:**

> There might be a further exploration of these themes in a second part at some point.

“How many days now, Coward?” Blackwood murmurs.

He rubs his thumb in gentle circles right under the tip of Coward’s cock, passing over and over the sensitive string of his frenulum. He’s been rubbing like this for almost a quarter of an hour now. No slower, no faster. Just. Like. _This_.

There’s no tedium in it, not in watching the way Coward shudders and gasps under his hand.

“Forty-“ Coward keens suddenly, high and shameless, as Blackwood flicks the thick gold ring that pierces his cock head. “F-forty four.”

Blackwood makes an appreciative noise and uses the pad of just one finger to slide through the copious pre-come leaking from him (he makes sure to whisper in Coward’s ear about just how _wet_ he’s getting, _just like a girl, Daniel_ ) and slowly, ever so slowly and lightly, begins to polish his glans. One finger, back and forth. The noises caught in Coward’s throat mean: _no, stop, please, please_ , and Blackwood smiles at how violently Coward’s cock twitches, despite the weight of the metal threaded through it, so desperate for some greater stimulation.

Coward’s body had been so beautiful he’d almost been loath to meddle with it. He’s prettier now though, Blackwood thinks, with his body marked and shackled for service. A perfect ornament.

“Please, oh, please,” Coward whines, his thighs taut and trembling with the effort to buck up into Blackwood’s touch but of course he’s tied down far too securely for any such hope of that.

Blackwood lifts his finger for a few seconds, then begins the painstaking caress once more.  

“You should be thanking me for unlocking you at all,” he says. “Disgraceful young men like you only have one thing between their legs of any importance.”

Coward groans. His cock bobs desperately in the air as Blackwood lifts his hand away. His balls are drawn up tight to his body and the flushed deep purple of his cock speaks more to agony than to pleasure. Blackwood feels a sympathetic ache himself, though he made good use of Coward’s mouth before they began this game. He shifts in his seat.

“If you can come like this,” he says, hardening at the hopeful light that flashes into Coward’s eyes. “Then I will allow it.”

He thumbs Coward’s piercing back and forth, gold gleaming wetly with the frustrated slick dribbling from Coward’s slit.

Thirty minutes later, Coward is crying, begging him to stop, a puddle of pearl decorating the space between his pretty little hipbones. Of course he’s found no release, the soft, relentless brush of Blackwood’s fingertips, back and forth over the head of his cock will never be enough to grant him orgasm. Blackwood leans in and blows on his poor, neglected shaft.

"I can't, I can't, please, please," Coward sobs.  
  
"No?" Blackwood says.  
  
He lets his fingers slip down beneath the tight, shiny fullness of Coward's balls, to the guiche piercing that echoes the ring through his cock.  
  
"Perhaps you would like me to fuck you instead?"

He circles the soft, crinkled skin of Coward's hole. The bed-sheets themselves are already stained wet with what's dripped down between Coward's thighs and it's so, so easy to press the tips of two fingers inside, stroking and spreading the clench of Coward's rim.  
  
"Yes! Oh god, yes..." Coward moans, trying in vain to fuck himself back against Blackwood's fingers.  
  
Blackwood sits back, takes his hands away and wipes them in the sweaty tangle of Coward's hair.  
  
"Well then," he says. "Of course you're not permitted to be fucked when you're free like this. I don't want to encourage bad habits after all, you might be distracted by thoughts of pleasing your own cock. You know that wouldn't be proper."  
  
He leans over Coward so they're eye to eye as he enunciates the final word with all the weighty finality it deserves. He can see the feverish despair in Coward's face and even, oh yes, the tears now.  
  
"Hmmm, let's see," Blackwood says. "For every minute it takes for you to grow soft enough for me to lock these lovely little rings of yours back together, we'll add another day to your chastity, hmmm?"

 

In the beginning, he'd been far more lenient with Coward. Not a truly disagreeable situation at all - how could one call it disagreeable, watching his favourite Janissary beg feverishly for permission to rut against his shoe like some sort of animal and then bend to lap up his spendings?  
  
It was the aftermath of such permissiveness that had led him to the alterations now in place. Those short, tedious periods after granting Coward a proper release, where satisfaction would dull the edge of his plaything's desire just enough that he would hesitate, _balk even_! At some particularly filthy degradation.  
  
_I can't..._ Coward had whispered to him one night, cringing away in gratifying fear, yet still _refusing_ to obey Blackwood's command that he go and fuck that whore's hole of his down onto the round, polished hardwood knob of the bedpost.  
  
Blackwood had made him pay for that, of course, but the fact that he refused at all was proof enough that something had to be done.  
  
Coward tells him that he's grateful, when Blackwood asks if he would have it any other way. A delicious little hitch in the back of his throat, his fingers twisting together, toes curled; he'll say that he's glad of the need, that he knows it makes him better fit to serve.  
  
Now, he must always plead for his milkings himself. That's one of the rules. Head down on the floor, ass high up in the air, presenting. If it's been long enough, Blackwood will grant him permission to go crawl away and fetch his choice of implement. Occasionally Blackwood will use his own fingers, but he enjoys making Coward suffer under a certain clinical impersonality. It's far more humbling. When he shakes his head and calmly pronounces Coward an irrevocable slut, it has all the authority of implacable diagnosis.  
  
There is another rule, that Coward cannot be penetrated by the same object twice and even the worst throes of Coward's need don't leave him so far gone as not to blush, red-faced with shame at this. A very pleasing predicament.  
  
Violated and vulnerable, Blackwood can hardly think of a prettier picture. He takes his time, a slow and steady massage of the little gland within Coward, while Coward moans and cries out and trembles beneath him and eventually, inevitably promises anything, _anything at all_ if Blackwood will only let him touch himself.  
  
Blackwood does touch his cock sometimes, an incidental brush of the back of his hand as he scoops up the seed that has been trickling in a gradual, agonizing, drip, drip, drip, from Coward's cock. There's always so much of it. Blackwood likes to feed it to Coward as he's fucked. Likes to smear it over his lips, his nose, making him wallow in the scent of his own muck. In a kind of mindless, wanton hope for more, more of _anything_ , Coward seems to welcome such touch. He'll chase after the hand dirtying him, eager to suck him, to lick up anything that's offered to him, gag at fingers pushing against his throat - as if any stimulation at all could somehow push him over the edge just out of reach and allow him the orgasm he has been denied for so long.  
  
Of course it's hopeless. Perhaps that's the most beautiful thing about it. Coward can't help but grind desperately back against whatever ignoble thing is buried inside him, beseeching Blackwood, _please, please don't stop, please more_. He is pleading for his own torture to continue, a release that must seem right on the cusp of attainment to him. And Blackwood can enjoy this pitiful scene for as long as he likes, savouring the knowledge that this climax for Coward will never come. Turning Coward's hunger into an instrument for honing his service.


End file.
